Paper Cranes
by Gosangoku
Summary: If he folds a thousand, maybe he'll survive. — US/UK.
1. find me, need me

Folded paper delicately floats on the water after drifting through the air, sailing on the gentle breeze. Soft ripples ebb from it until the rings disappear, unmoving, and the mist that envelops the place makes it appear as if there was an ethereal veil sheltering the area. I can't tell where the sky begins, or if it does at all. This place seems almost like it has an invisible barrier around it. No matter how far into the forest I run, I never escape from here. I try every day, but my efforts are futile. It isn't so bad, however; I have my silent friends beside me.

My father complains about it, saying how I'm a freak for talking to thin air, and then sighs and shakes his head because I never answer him. I don't like speaking to people who don't understand anything that they don't believe. Nobody is open-minded anymore though, are they? It hardly matters though, because I will most likely never get out of here—this condense forest in the middle of nowhere.

I haven't always lived here. I found photographs in father's drawers: sepia toned pictures of a long-haired woman holding me in various locations in a city. There was a museum, which I'd never been to, but I'd read about in books. Books could also be located in libraries, which was somewhere I'd love to visit. As it is, I have a lot of books, but I've read them all numerous times and cannot go anywhere with new novels that I can utilise to escape reality. I'd like to live in a city someday—one with lots of winding roads, big houses made of bricks, tall buildings that reflected the blinding sun, or even a downpour of rain. As long as it was industrialised, I would like it. I'd want to visit the shops a lot and buy a new book every day. In the ones I've read, there are foods other than fruits, vegetables and animals in woods. I've taken to being a vegetarian, which is someone who doesn't consume meat. I saw father hunting animals a few years ago and it made me feel sick.

Father is a murderer.

He never talks about mother. I've only seen her in photographs, but I don't know anything about her. She was very thin and very frail, but she was the kind of person who could make sunshine appear behind storm clouds. Or, that's the impression I've gathered from her script-scribbled notes on the back of photos. Father doesn't like to look at them, so I took them. I hide them beneath my floorboards because I don't want anyone to take them from me. I let the faeries look at them, but the nymphs are too heedless and frolicsome. I've wondered if she loved me a lot, but then I realise it's pointless to dwell on it; I'll never see her again.

The paper cranes in the water eventually soak up too much and slowly sink into the murky depths. I stare out for a moment longer, unperturbed by the constant drizzle cascading from the endless sky, and wish for someone to save me.

But it's the same wish I make every day, the same thing I pray for, and not yet has it come true. My fairytales tell me to keep believing but with every day that passes, my urge to drown like the cranes grows.

I'm suffocating here anyway. Why not take control of my own destiny?

**x.**

Father's bottles line the thin hallways, but my nose no longer wrinkles at the stench of alcohol that always lingers on his breath. He somehow has a large supply of them. I don't remember coming here, so he must have brought them with us back then. I carefully grasp one gingerly between two of my fingers and take it into my bedroom, ignoring Father who is snoring on the makeshift sofa.

I grab one of my previously made paper cranes and unfold it, silently offering an apology to it as I bit my thumb and covered a small rock with my blood. I wrote a short message on the paper crane and stared dubiously at it before sighing ruefully. I picked up the bottle and slid the paper in, closing it off with a cork.

Father didn't wake up when I left the house, but he never noticed or cared anyway. It's not as if I could ever get away from here. A lost paradise, Father called it. I called it purgatory; it felt like nothing. But I wasn't sure I'd ever get to see heaven anyway.

As I gazed out at the neverending lake and became soaked in the continuous drizzle of rain, I tossed the bottle into the water and watched it float away.

"Save me," I whispered. I hadn't used my voice in years, but maybe they'd hear me if I did.

**x.**

Faeries' wings are comparable to those of a butterflies or a fireflies. They're very delicate and would be immobilised if their wings were grasped. They are fragile and gentle, although faeries don't necessarily possess personalities similar to their frail, almost transparent wings. With sparkling eyes and glittering alabaster skin, slender frames, long necks and long joints. Really, it was easy to mistake fireflies for faeries. Only... Father says only I can see faeries and it's because there's something wrong with me. I don't care. If my defect allows me to see such beautiful creatures, then I'm glad I'm a freak.

(But when Father is hitting me, I'm not terribly happy about my status. But sometimes I revel in it because I'm glad whatever's wrong with me disturbs him.)

The faeries assure me that I'm not weird. They're very honest creatures for the most part, although since they're all different, some of them are a bit mean and others are just very ingratiating. I didn't tell many lies because I didn't speak, although I'm sure I'd probably lie if I did talk. I'd say that I was okay even though I'm hurting or that I'm content when I feel like drowning myself or that I didn't want to be saved. None of those things are true, but I think I'd be a good liar if I spoke. If others were around.

I also make up stories and I lie in those too. They're call fictional stories. I'd write them, but I don't have any utensils to do so with. I've tried doing it with my blood but it made me dizzy because I used too much. Father saw and sneered and told me I should just slit my wrists if I'm that masochistic, and then later he drowned himself in alcohol and sputtered apologies as he held me tightly enough for it to hurt. Then he shoved me and screamed at me, but I didn't speak to him. He says I'm a mute, but I just have no reason to speak.

I'd like to write my stories down one day though. I'd share them with people and maybe they would like them. It seems I'll never know though, because I'll probably never get out of here.

**x.**

I don't have any paper left. I used all of it for paper cranes and useless blood-smeared letters that were a fruitless effort at self-sufficiency. I have a lot of paper cranes dangling from the ceiling, but I felt bad for forcing such beautiful bird-like creatures to stay with me when they could fly. I would forever remain a part of a cage, but they didn't have to be stuck too. So I threw them all across the lake, allowing them to glide and flutter down into the water. The faeries came with me as I let all eleven thousand and thirty seven free, but Father never came to search for me although I was gone for a couple of days, abandoning sleep to let them all go. If I didn't let them leave, the wind would take them anyway. I wanted to bid them farewell.

I've started collecting Father's bottles. I smash them and reassemble the pieces into little towers and statues of cranes, but glass isn't the same as paper. It cut my hands a lot but I didn't mind, although I smeared blood over my walls and Father panicked and hit me so hard that everything went black. I woke up and he was crying and apologising again, breath reeking of alcohol, but I didn't push away the intoxicated man. Eventually, he just left me, lying limp on the floor and going to drink more.

I picked up another bottle and smashed it, throwing the shards over my room and walking over them, enjoying the sound of cracking and the feeling of pain in my feet.

I stuck more of the glass shards together with honey from trees, and again they looked like cranes. They sparkle in the sunlight and the faeries love them, but they don't get too near in fear of cutting themselves; they have seen how I am covered in slashes. But I like them.

I threw one of them into the lake, but it just sunk immediately. My glass cranes can't fly.

I wish I wasn't made of glass.

**x.**

I wake up and expect to see glass cranes and wooden ceilings, but instead I see aqua vinyl floors and artificial light from a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. It smells like some kind of chemicals that I've read about it books but I can't really place them, although it's most likely medicinal.

I sit up to find myself in a strange green robe that almost matches the floor. There are bandages on my arms and legs and there are wires in my arm. There's a disconcerting beeping sound that speeds up suddenly, and I realise it's my heart beat. It goes faster again as the door creaks open ominously, and a man in a white coat strolls in with a reassuring smile. I back up, feeling like a cornered animal, and he stops as if he noticed my fear.

"Arthur Kirkland," he says, voice a lot softer than Father's but more bright. He has shining blue eyes and I'm mesmerised because everything in the forest is pastel-like and saturated. I tilt my head at his words, and his smile saddens. "That's your name, kiddo," he explains gently, sighing and running a hand through his light brown hair. "Well, my name's Alfred Jones. Senior," he adds, grinning. "I have a son. My wife and I decided to name him Alfred 'cause it's sort of a tradition in my family."

I stare at him.

"Arthur's a nice name, I think," he continues. "Did you know there was once a King Arthur?"

Of course I know that. I'm not stupid. I nod.

His smile broadens. "Oh? It's awesome that you know. How are you aware of it?"

I frown blankly. How anyone finds out—I read.

"Anyway, Arthur," he procedes, placing his chart on a table beside the heart rate monitor. He approaches me and I eye him warily, but he sits beside me and gently rubs my back. "Your dad's been taken into custody by the police." He looks at me reproachfully. "You know about the police, don't you?" I nod, scowling. "'Course you do, you're a smart kid. Sorry, I was just worried, since... well, where you've been." He eyes me, looking anguished, and I stop glaring at him. "Arthur, do you know why the police have taken your dad?"

I lower my gaze to my hands, wondering where the faeries were or if they will be able to find me. I shrug although I think I know the answer.

"He kidnapped you, Arthur," he mumbles softly. "He took you away from your family when you were just a baby. And he's hurt you too, hasn't he? Arthur?"

He hurt me a lot, but I don't mind. I don't like it, but he's very sad a lot. Besides, I don't care what he does. I nod again anyway.

"You'll have to tell the police," the doctor mutters, gentle but sounding much more firm. "They'll want to talk to you, Arthur. You'll do that, won't you?"

I look at him pointedly and draw my brows together.

His smile is sad again. "Maybe if you have a bit of TLC first, eh?" He grins suddenly, weaving his arm around my shoulders, and I loosen up, ready for him to shake me or smack me. He doesn't, just continues rubbing my arm. "I think you'd like to meet my son, although he's the complete opposite of you. He's loud, obnoxious, and never studies," he says, rolling his eyes, but he's obviously fond of the boy he's speaking about. "Maybe you'll help him change that habit, eh, Arthur?"

I look away, shrugging once again. He holds me until I fall asleep.

**x.**

I'm in Doctor Jones's car. He took me out of the hospital today to take me to see his family. He has two sons, but he forgot to mention his other one because he lives with his mother and they don't live together. He told me that he and his wife separated last year but they're still close friends and their sons see each other in school all the time. He also said that I might be going to their school soon. I'm not sure I'm looking forward to it. The prospect of going to a big place full of a lot of people makes me feel sick.

I watch as houses and buildings pass and note them with satisfaction. I'm glad there are buildings here. Doctor Jones previously said that this is south London, although he isn't English; he moved here with his partner seven years ago when his sons were two. He came here for a job, but he'd like to go back to the USA one day. He says that I'm a year older than his sons, and I asked how he knows, and he told me that he found my birth certificate. He let me look at it and I found out that my mother's name was Elizabeth and she died only a few years after Father took me. Doctor Jones said that he would take me to her grave to pay my respects. I vowed to make Mother paper cranes.

"We're here!" he declares happily, humming to himself as the growling sound of the engine suddenly stops and he removes his keys from the ignition. He gets out and then opens my door for me and then he offers to take my hand but I just stare at him in confusion. He sighs but smiles again and leads the way to his house, shoving the key in the lock and shoving it open. "Alfred, I'm home," he calls, glances at me, and then steps to the side as a blur flies past him.

I glance around to see a boy skid to a stop, stumbling and almost falling over, and he glares at Doctor Jones. "That's mean!" he insists, and then his azure eyes fall on me. He eyes me curiously before cackling. "You have really big eyebrows," he says, then grins, "and really pretty eyes."

I scowl at him, bewildered, as Doctor Jones flicks him in the forehead and says something about manners. He then rolls his eyes and dismisses Alfred's sulky mumbles and ushers us in, telling us to break the ice.

"Polar bears," Alfred says with a lopsided grin, and I stare at him. "It's an ice breaker!"

I blink.

He pouts. "Man, you're no fun." He glances back, presumably to see his father in the kitchen, and then turns back to me. "Dad told me I have to be nice to you 'cause something bad happened," he says, tilting his head. "What was it?"

I glare reproachfully and look away.

He was silent for a few moments and then sighed in frustration. "Okay, fine, don't tell me," he mumbles, but soon perks up. "So anyways, I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm nine years old and I'll be ten in July—You'd better remember that! Get me a present, okay?—and I have a twin brother called Matthew but he's really boring and carries a bear with him everywhere." He rolls eyes eyes and snorts before smiling at me. "How about you?"

I glance back at him and, seeing his hopeful smile and bright blue eyes, I whisper softly, "My name is Arthur Kirkland. I like paper cranes."

He looks at me for a long moment before laughing. "That's weird," he says, but he suddenly looks contemplative. "Have you made any before?"

I nod.

He hums, thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugs off whatever he was thinking. "You'll have to show me some time," he says earnestly, beaming. "For now, c'mon—I'll teach you to play _Halo_ while Dad makes us some food. Do you like burgers?"

**x.**

Alfred is a strange person.

He insults me quite a lot but he gets angry if anyone else does. He hugs me and ruffles my hair and pulls my cheeks but when he found out that a boy in school teased me and pushed me over and ripped my books, he told them off. He encourages me to talk to more people but then glares at them when they sit next to me or invite me to their house.

I started attending Alfred's school last month. After six months of therapy without any significant results, the psychologist decided that I would benefit most by being surrounded by other people my own age. I stay in the psychiatric ward in the hospital but I sleep over at Alfred's house on the weekends. The doctors are concerned because I don't eat a lot and I never speak to them. When Doctor Jones said that I sometimes talk to Alfred, they warily said that I should stay around him more. Doctor Jones was more than happy to oblige.

I like school. I enjoy learning things and I think I'm quite good at it because I get As a lot and Alfred gawked at me and said that it's amazing. But he's better than me at most of the sciences, especially astronomy. He said he wants to be an astronaut or a fireman or a science professor. I said that it's good to have high aspirations and he grinned at my approval, hugging me.

I always feel warm when Alfred hugs me.

Alfred likes sports. He isn't very good right now, but I believe he can improve. He falls over a lot and when he plays American football, he sometimes scores in the wrong goal because he doesn't pay attention. Once he was really sad after practice and started crying on the field after the rest of the team when inside, still sniggering. So I stumbled away from what he refers to as the bleachers and walked over to him. I knelt in front of him, tore out a page of my notebook, and folded it.

"What is it?" he asked, voice nasally as he sniffled. He rubbed away his tears and peered out curiously.

"A paper crane," I replied softly, placing the delicate creature in his dirty hands. He stared at it for a long moment and then looked back at me, not sure what to do. I carefully put my hands under his and lifted them as a gust of wind blew past, whisking the bird off and carrying it through the wind. We watched it go and then he turned back to me. "You remind me of birds," I murmured quietly, looking at our intertwined hands. "You're free, uninhibited, and learning to fly." I smiled. "Even if you can't see your wings, I can."

That was the first time he kissed me.

**x.**

"Happy birthday, Arthur!"

I look up from my book, slipping my bookmark into it and shutting it as my rambunctious friend approaches with a toothy grin. I blink in surprise as he kneels in front of my desk and shoves a brightly wrapped present before my eyes.

"Birthday..." I repeat, staring at him with wide eyes. "How do you know it?"

"Dad told me," he replies cheekily. "If you weren't gonna tell me, I had to find out somehow. Now go on—open it!"

Flushing slightly, I nervously tug at the ribbon (and subtly drop it into my lap so I can put it in my pocket and take back with me to use later) and then peel apart the paper. I open the lid of the box and stare at what lies inside—a soft white plush with a glittering horn on its head, a fluffy rainbow tail portruding from the back of it. I pick it up.

"It's a unicorn," Alfred explains, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I, uh... I dunno if you like 'em. If it's too girly, I'll return it. It's just—I saw you looking at it when we went to the toy store a couple of weeks ago."

I hold it closer and begin to puff out its tail, mesmerised by the various diverse colours. "I like it," I mumbled softly into its fur, and Alfred grins in relief.

"Good," he breathes, and we both smile.

**x.**

I spend Christmases with the Jones family. Alfred's mother and brother come around, along with his grandparents, who insist that we're all too small. Alfred then shoves me in front of him and declares that I'm shorter and skinnier and then his grandmother tells me she'll make me apple pie and give me chocolates and then she pinches my cheeks and then laughs.

I help her and Alfred's mother cook the dinner, although I burnt the potatoes so they told me to just set the table. Alfred and Matthew helped me with it and told me I shouldn't bother helping because it's boring, so then I was whisked off to play board games. Alfred won most of them but Matthew insisted that he was cheating. Before an argument could escalate, Alfred's father taught us card games, and I won most of them.

To my surprise, Alfred's parents get me presents too. I always blush and stutter objections but then Alfred rolls his eyes and pulls me towards him, saying he won't let me go until I open them. I blush more as his parents laugh and coo and take pictures but I still like being close to him.

"Why does your family have me over for the holidays?" I asked him afterwards, when we're in a fort that we built made of blankets and pillows.

He scoffs. "You're pretty much part of the family," he told me once, putting his hand over mine and smiling. "We all want you here."

Then he shoved a piece of chocolate in my mouth and laughed when I began choking.

**x.**

I'm in high school now.

Since Alfred's a year younger than me, we have to wait another year to be together. I was sad when I had to leave, but so was he, so we made a pact to be friends forever. He wanted us to spit on our hands, but I thought it was unhygienic. He mumbled that we have to share spit for it to work properly, so I kissed him on the lips. It was chaste but I blushed furiously and he stared at me, but then he hugged me tightly until I had to go back to the hospital.

One my last day of primary school with him, I made two paper cranes and even coloured his with red stripes and stars and mine with faeries. We threw them together and held hands as we watched them disappear into the everlasting sky.

**x.**

High school is odd. The people in my year are loud and childish but they become shy around older kids. The upperclassmen are rowdy and talk about rude things that I find kind of disgusting, but I slowly grow accustomed to it.

An older boy often follows me around and teases me, but I insult him back. We got into a scuffle and ended up in the headmaster's office and I didn't cry even though the older boy said he expected me to.

"You are a strange boy, Arthur," he observes, flicking his blond hair over his shoulder as he cast a glance in my direction. I wish the headmaster hadn't said my name. He doesn't need to know it.

I shrug and don't answer because I don't see a point. I don't like talking to most people. Alfred and his family are just an exception.

"Why do you refrain from speaking to me?" he whines, jogging in front of me. I stop and look up at him blankly. "Your eyebrows are very horrible. Shall I pluck them for you?" he asks, sniggering, and I glare darkly and shove him with my shoulder as I pass. He grabs my arm and I stop. "But your hair is a lovely colour, even if it is unruly. If I cut it for you, it would be marvellous!"

I don't move.

"Since you do not wish to speak to me, I will go. But Arthur, remember my name, for we shall be conversing again!" He graps my hand and holds it to his lips as he bows, grazing his lips across it. I blush and he smirks. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy."

I step on his foot.

**x.**

Since meeting Bonnefoy, his friends have gradually been introduced to me. They were all a year or two older than me, but they didn't seem to mind. They frequently called me a baby and threw jibes about my age at me, but I didn't really care.

I always sit with them at lunch and Elizaveta has expressed concern over my lack of eating. I tell her I don't ever feel very hungry but she makes sure I eat something before I leave for class. She has a bad temper but she's very caring. I think she only gets really angry at Gilbert, who Bonnefoy says has a crush on her, although she says she's infatuated with Roderich, who is Gilbert's brother.

Gilbert is kind of like Alfred in terms of volume, but Alfred's a lot more gentle, even if it seems uncharaceristic. But Gilbert's a lot more relaxed when he plays his violin, and I always love listening to it. I also listen to Roderich play piano and I decide to learn guitar. I buy my own book to teach myself and I stay an hour after school every day to practice on the guitars there since I can't buy one myself.

Alfred is always asking me about high school now, although he tries to hide how excited he is; he seems to be someone who likes to be the alpha, so he doesn't really like admitting that he listens to me. But he always does. I sometimes tell him stories I've made up in my head and he just lies his head in my lap and listens.

I miss Alfred.****

x.

We go to the same high school. Although he's a year younger than me, he's a bit taller and generally bigger than me, which should be irritating, but I mostly object just for show. But I don't mind it really because it feels nice when we hug and we just fit together well. But he's still quite gangly and doesn't seem to fit his body yet, so he still moves in a very ungraceful fashion. He tried out for the rugby team immediately (thinking it was American football), but they just laughed at him and said cruel things. He tried to hold back his tears but when I found him huddled in the changing rooms, he clung to me and sobbed into my shoulder.

"Try again next year," I whispered into golden locks, stroking his hair soothingly. "I believe in you, Alfred."

For the rest of the year, he spends his time trying to fit in and acting cool. He picks on his brother a bit and I lecture him about it, but he just dismisses it. I try to be nice to Matthew but whenever I am, Alfred gets annoyed and drags me away. And when I brought them to sit with Bonnefoy and Gilbert and everyone during break times, he told me he didn't like me hanging out with them. I told him that they're my friends and I wasn't going to stop, so he got mad and stormed off.

**x.**

I panic when people touch me. I'm not sure when it happened, because I used to just go lax and wait for them to hurt me, but now I find it hard to breathe when someone gets too close to me. It happened a few weeks ago in PE and it was very sudden. We were playing football (what Alfred calls soccer), and a boy shoved me over but then tripped and landed on me. Something flashed and went grey and I just heard sobbing and my Father's voice.

I told the psychologist in the hospital and I was, after a couple of weeks, diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. He told me what it meant but I already knew because I'd read about psychological disorders. But he also said my emotional growth was stunted and I seem to have autism, although they're unsure if I do. I don't think I do, I just don't get along with people.

Alfred hasn't hugged me in a long time. It makes me feel bad. And when he noticed me and walked away the other day I felt like crying.

**x.**

For his birthday, I walked to his house and slipped the present through the slot in his door where letters go, and then I went to meet Bonnefoy in Kingston.

I got Alfred _Call of Duty_ because a lot of the other boys like playing that and he's always liked video games. I'm not much of a fan, but I like _Pokémon_. I was doodling Charmander once and a Japanese boy in my class, Kiku Honda, noticed it. Sometimes I visit him and he shows me anime and manga and lets me borrow them. He's quite timid and doesn't speak much, so he's a bit like me, but I like him. And I showed him my paper cranes and he was very happy because his mother used to make them before she passed away. We often spend hours just making paper cranes together and I tell him about how I make them a lot when I'm sad.

"Are you sad now?" he had asked when I told him. I nodded. "Why is that? If you do not mind me asking..."

I hesitated, and continued folding paper. "I miss my friend. Alfred Jones. I don't think he likes me anymore." I gazed down ruefully at my drooping crane. "I don't think I'll ever be happy if he doesn't care about me."

**x.**

Gilbert invites me to a party, but I've never been to one. He laughs when I tell him that and ruffles my hair. After school, he takes me out to buy some new clothes and says he'll pay because he has enough money due to his part time job and parents. I look at sweatervests but he ends up buying me skinny jeans and Converse trainers and torn up shirts with band names on them. When I try them on, he grabs my arms and asks if I cut myself.

"I have on glass before," I reply, and he looks uncomfortable. "It was when I was little though. Before I came here. To London. It's not because I'm depressed," I assure him, but he looks unconvinced. He drops my arms and shifts uncomfortably and lets me pull on another shirt.

Later, we go to the party, but I don't notify the hospital because they probably won't let me go. So we get a train into central London and walk around looking for the place and Gilbert flashes a fake ID with a self-assured grin, and I dash in behind him.

The smell of alcohol lingers in the air and I gag. Gilbert laughs heartily and weaves through the crowd. I trail along behind him as he lets out a shout and approaches Elizaveta and Bonnefoy. A few others are here and I remember their faces but I don't know their names.

I suddenly find myself with a bottle in my hand and I eye it warily. The others egg me on and I feel pressured. I don't want to end up sobbing and hurting someone like Father, but they are chanting my name so I have to do something.

I downed the drink.

**x.**

Since then, I've been to more and more parties. I don't particularly like them and I get intoxicated every time. I often end up staying at Bonnefoy's or Gilbert's houses because they don't know where I live and I'm often too drunk to know the way to the hospital.

Alfred's been avoiding me. Whenever I'm with Bonnefoy and everyone, he glares at me and then walks off. I'm torn between hopelessness and indignation, which strengthens my incentive to get as drunk as possible and forget everything. I've stopped being happy. I was happy when Alfred was teasing me and dragging me around, but now he just doesn't speak to me.

My psychologist is worried about me. I've stopped speaking to him again. They brought in a psychiatrist instead and she's put me on anti-depressants. At first, I tossed them in the bin and refused to take them. But eventually, as Alfred stopped even looking me and just ignored my existence, I began greedily shoving them down my throat. During classes, I sneakily extracted some pills and slipped them in my mouth and at break times I took a few in the bathrooms.

I think I took too many today. That, in addition to my hangover, is making me feel like shit. I really don't want to do any physical activity today, so I'm taking my time trailing towards the changing rooms, almost falling over as more excited boys dash towards them.

I drop my bag onto a bench and sit down, my eyesight swimming and head thumping along with my heartbeat. I groan and lean against the wall, suddenly feeling too hot. I hear voices around me but they're all swirling into one constant droning sound.

Then I can feel hands on me, touching me, and I try to push them away. I don't want to be touched. Don't touch me—!

**x.**

A rush of air, a ticking clock, and I'm gasping for breath.

I lurch up, clinging to the material beneath my hands and inhaling oxygen needily. There's a rush of colour and suddenly everything is too bright. I blink rapidly and cover my face with my hands, groaning.

"You're awake. Finally."

I don't look up and I don't answer. I haven't spoken to anyone in a while. I don't see a point.

"How're you feeling...?"

I remain silent.

Someone sighs and I feel the bed I'm lying on dip beside me. I shuffle away slightly, not wanting to accidentally touch the other person. "Arthur," they say, sighing again when I don't respond. "Why aren't you speaking, Arthur?"

I shake my head.

"Please talk to me," they say after a moment of hesitation, sounding like it pained them to say it. "I... Is it something I did?"

I drop my hands into my lap and look at Alfred ruefully. We lock gazes for a moment before I turn away again, shrugging.

"Kiku told me you've stopped talking again," he mumbled quietly, still looking at me. I feel his stare on me and shift uncomfortably. "He... He's really worried about you." He paused, probably waiting for me to answer. I didn't. "And so am I."

I let out a breath that sounds almost like a disbelieving laugh, and Alfred frowns. He reaches out for my arm but I flinch back, pressing myself against the wall and staring at him with wide eyes. He looks back at me, astonished and disconcerted, and then just plain worried.

"Has anyone treated you badly...?" he ventures nervously, climbing onto the bed properly and sitting in front of me on his knees, only an inch away. I close my eyes. "It was Bonnefoy, wasn't it? He's always with you. I told you to stay away from him—!"

I shake my head rapidly, and he goes quiet again. Then he sighs. I look up from beneath my too-long fringe to see him scowling at his hands.

"Why'd you start hanging out with them, Arthur?" he asks, and he sounds almost betrayed. I bristle angrily.

"...Lonely," I whisper hoarsely. He looks at me again. "I'm lonely."

He stares sadly at me. "Then why don't you come back to me?" he enquires, voice almost as quiet as mine, and he leans forward to press our foreheads together. I stiffen. "Why'd you leave, Arthur?"

"Me?" I gasp, eyes flying open. "You're the one who hates me."

His eyes widen in shock and he gapes for a moment before shaking his head furiously. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demands, grabbing my arms. I grimace. "I could never hate you!"

"You do," I insist, lowering my gaze. "You avoid me. You don't speak to me."

He recoils, looking guilty and conflicted. "Yeah," he admits. "But... I thought you didn't wanna hang out with me. I mean, you're always with those older guys." He glares. "And you've started going to parties and stuff..."

"I don't like them," I admit, sighing softly. "I always get drunk and I hate it. My father used to be drunk all the time. It makes me forget but it scares me. I don't like losing control." I feel my lower lip tremble but I refuse to cry. I let out a shakey breath. "I tore up all my paper cranes at the hospital a little while ago," I tell him, but I don't know why.

He looks mortified and anguished. "What?" he asks, pulling me closer. "Why?"

I look down. "Because I'm numb," I confess. "I don't have anyone. I'm nobody. Creatures who are able to fly shouldn't be tied down to someone who's so like a cage."

"Stupid Arthur," he mumbles, and then tugs me closer. I fall against him but can't move away; he's holding me tightly. But it's not uncomfortable or terrifying like it is with others, so I hesitantly lean against him, clutching his shirt and burying my face in his shoulder. "You're not like a cage. You're like a home. My home." He buries his face in my hair and I shut my eyes. "I don't wanna lose you..."

"I missed you," I blurt out, and he repeats the words.

**x.**

Christmas is a quiet affair this year. Alfred's grandmother just not long ago and the funeral will be in January. His grandfather is still smiling but he often just trails off and stares out of the window as if expecting his wife to appear out of nowhere.

Alfred's mother cried in the kitchen earlier, so his father took over the cooking. Matthew and Alfred are a lot more quiet right now. They don't feel up to doing much. So the television is droning in the background, carols being sang by choirs.

I'm itching to take my pills. I still rely on them. But Alfred is holding my hand and sitting right next to me, so he'd see.

So I just squeeze his hand and smile at him. He returns it and we get lost in our thoughts as the sound of music and the smell of Christmas dinner fills the atmosphere.

Later that night, we huddle in his bed together and I fold paper. He throws them and they glide through the air.

"I want to hang them on my ceiling," he says softly, holding onto the one I just made. "I'll always look up to see them flying. And I'll think of you."

I smile and nod, pressing holes into their wings and threading string through them. We stick them to the ceiling with tape and then lie down to watch them hang from the roof.

We fall asleep holding hands.

**x.**

I make paper cranes for Alfred's grandmother's funeral. They're all white but some of them have flowers tucked inside of them. I scowl at the lilies I see everywhere and shake my head, producing more lighthearted but meaningful flowers to put on his grandmother's grave.

The priest reads words to commemorate her death and a lot of people cry. As they lower the coffin, I pass out paper cranes, and everyone throws them. Fifteen paper cranes flutter through the air.

Alfred doesn't cry until we get back, and I hold him as he falls asleep, and only let go when he wakes up.

**x.**

I visit every day after school and sometimes I even go to Matthew's house to check on him and his mother. Eventually, she stops crying about the death, and gradually begins to get back on track. Matthew confessed to me earlier that he had been worried she was going to fall into depression, and I tried to reassure him without telling him that there is medicine for it.

Alfred's getting happier. To my surprise, he invited me out on the weekend and took me to a quiet park where we folded paper and had tea and coffee and shared some fast food he'd brought.

_"I'm going to be strong," he eventually said as I was sipping my hot tea. "I'm tired of being scared of everything and giving up easily." He had looked at me, determination alight in his blazing blue eyes. "Arthur, I... As long as you're by my side, I know that I can be strong." He grasped my free hand and stared right in my eyes, gaze intense and I was glad we had been sitting because it made me feel weak. "Will you, Arthur? Stay with me?" he'd asked, a hint of vulnerability displayed openly in his hopeful expression, and I smiled._

"Forever," I promised.

We spent the evening watching the stars.

**x.**

I arrive at Alfred's rugby try-outs without telling him, and slyly make my way into the stands to watch. I clutch the neatly wrapped present and lean forwards eagerly as a whistle blows and the practice begins.

I wince as boys fly at Alfred in a barrage that reminds me, unsurprisingly, of undignified charging bulls. He staggers backwards and almost falls, but then shoves one of the bruts off of him and pushes past the others, snagging the ball and charging towards the scoring area.

He throws it to the ground and cheers loudly, and I grin and clap, before blushing as I find myself bouncing in my seat.

The team disperse off of the field about an hour later, and Alfred removes his helmet, tossing his hair that should soon be cut. He's grown again, but now he looks less clumsy in his body. He started going to the gym after one of the school's atheletes insulted his weight and, whilst he still has "love handles" (which I find quite cute), he's fairly toned. I had first quietly joked that he'd been spending a lot more time with his hand, and he stared at me before bursting out laughing, confessing that he never expected me to make a sexual joke. I refrained from pointing out that I was frenemies with Francis Bonnefoy; Alfred still dislikes him being around me.

"I made the team," he says, grinning widely, and I chuckle at a blade of grass stuck in his teeth. I pluck it out and smile proudly at him.

"I told you," I reply, and then shove the present at him. He takes it and blinks, and I flush deeply. "Open it."

He does, pulling out a large leather jacket. His eyes widen in surprise and he gapes for a minute, and then looks at me, astonished. "I... I've wanted this forever," he whispers in shock. "How... How did you...?"

I smirk lightly, sticking my hands in my pockets and trying not to falter when I feel my bottle of pills. "If you weren't going to tell me what you wanted," I reply, "then I had to find out somehow."

He beams at me and tackles me in a messy hug with our limbs flying everywhere. I groan painfully as he lands on top of me and my head collides with the floor. He grins apologetically, slipping his hand under my head and lifting it slightly. Things seem to soften somehow, and his eager excitement falls into a more relaxed contentment. He smiles, half-lidded eyes full of life. "Thanks, Artie," he murmures softly, and I feel his breath against my lips. I blush and squirm awkwardly, but I feel warm and happy at his words and smile back.

"You're welcome," I murmur, and I'm not sure who leans forward first, but in my head, I recall that this is our second kiss.

**x.**

_It was on a New Year's Eve that he approached me, stoney faced and determined, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me outside. He ignored my protests and eventually I just scowled and followed him. We ended up getting a train in silence, the lights flickering on and off and a flow of overtime workers boarding and leaving. We arrived in Brighton and walked down to the pier in the rain. I tried not to shiver but he noticed anyway and pulled me closer to him._

We went into a quiet café with only a man reading a damp newspaper and a teenager leaning on the till, examining her phone. Alfred ordered us both tea and shrugged when I reminded him that he didn't like it. We sat by a window and I watched the rain cascading heavily over the area and listened to the sound of waves combined with the buzzing of the artificial lights above us.

"Tell me everything," Alfred had suddenly said, and I turned to him in puzzlement. He ran a hand over his face and I tilted my head when I saw the minimal amount of stubble. I smiled slightly. I often forgot that we're growing up and time goes on no matter who you are. One day, we'd be old. But hopefully we'd grow old together. "Before you were found. Before you were mine," he whispers, leaning across the table and grabbing my hand. "Tell me what happened, Arthur."

I told him. I reiterated tales of my father and how I ended up with him even though I didn't remember being taken. But mostly, I spoke of the faeries and my paper cranes and glass figures. When I mentioned the glass, he looked at my arms and then into my ears.

When the clock struck twelve, he wordlessly pulled me into a kiss. I could taste his tears before I realised that I was crying too.


	2. want me, love me

**x.  
**  
"I wish I'd been the one to save you," he says, startling me out of my concentration on my notes. We have our A Level exams soon and are currently on study leave. We're both in sixth form, although I'm leaving next year and I'm going to attend university. Alfred will have another year left. I glance at his open Chemistry book and sigh, realising he isn't paying attention to studying.

"I don't need to be saved, Alfred," I tell him, and he just sighs, scowling out at the rain.

"But... before," he mumbles. "When you were with _him_. Alone." He closes his eyes, brows knitting together.

I smile sadly. "Alfred," I murmur gently, "You may not have known I was there and you might not have found me, but you have saved me in your own way." He casts me a disbelieving glance, as he always does, and I feel more upset. He never believes me when I reassure him. "Really," I insist forcefully, but he just smiles that fake smile and I want to punch him. "If I didn't have you, I don't know where I'd be," I say, glaring because he doesn't believe me. Why doesn't he believe me? He's the one faking the smile and pretending to be fine and I'm— "You're... You're my best friend, and... maybe more," I stutter, but I'm not embarrassed. I don't care if he's male or female as long as he's _my Alfred_. "If I hadn't had you, I'd... I'd probably still be an emotionless robot, sitting on a hospital bed and making paper cranes and wanting to drown myself."

He stares at me and I look back, glaring. I mean all of this. It's difficult for me to be honest, but I am for him, and now he's just smiling at me and—

I stand up, my chair screeching loudly in the silence. "You know what?" I spit, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "If you don't believe me, then you don't have to pretend to. You say you want to save me, and fine. That... I'm glad someone cares for me. But if you don't care about yourself, how strong is your incentive to save another?" I shake my head and make my way to the door. "If you care about me and you want to save me, do it for yourself first."

I shut the door behind me.

**x.**

"I have not seen you in a while, Arthur."

I don't look up from my book. "It was good while it lasted," I reply. He slinks an arm around my shoulders and I stiffen, sucking in a breath. _Let go._

"'Ave you got a boyfriend?" he asks, and I blush brightly before glaring darkly at him, wondering if he was really intuitive or if he just always jumped to that conclusion first. "Ah, so you do! What is his name?"

I shove him off and deepen my scowl. "Piss off," I snap, and then falter. Looking down, I mumble, "How's university?"

He looks surprised I asked, and then smiles as if pleased. "It is not as difficult as I had initially thought," he replies and pats my shoulder. "I am sure you will do well when you go."

I blink in surprise and try not to smile. I remove his arm from my shoulder but then awkwardly shake his hand.

"Take care, Francis," I murmur quietly, embarrassed.

He's still smiling. "And you, Arthur."

**x.**

I'm at Elizaveta's house. It's very traditional and very cosy. She lives with her mother, who is a single parent. Her parents separated when she was just a toddler, and she never sees her father. Apparently he pays child support but never visits and currently lives in Hungary. She claims not to care for him, but she's kept all of the postcards he had ever sent her and hangs them on her wall. "Because I like Hungary," she defends, but I found one under her pillow too, which had _I love you, darling_ written on, the ink smudged by water that I assumed were tears.

"I'll go get us cookies and tea," she says, and then grins. "Or biscuits, if you prefer," she adds, and then skips off to retrieve our snacks. She still ensures I eat enough. It's irritating, but really quite sweet of her. She alternates between being like a tomboy and suddenly quite feminine. She's confessed to me that she's bipolar, but that mostly effects her temperament.

I glance down as her kitten (Elizacat, she's called. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief when she told me and she blushed, adding that she only called her that because Gilbirt named his chick Gilbird.) who emerges from beneath her bed, biting on a piece of paper. I shoo her off gently, stroking her ears when the attention-seeking cat rubs up against me. I feel proud for rescuing what I'd assumed to be Elizaveta's homework, but freeze when I skim over the front cover of a... a comic book...?

I feel my face grow warm and strange tingling sensations drift through my body like mild electric shocks. It's... exciting. But weird. I swallow thickly, my hands shaking as I grip the magazine between my hands and stare at the anime-style boys on the front, unable to tear my gaze away from their flushed faces and exposed bodies...

I drop it quickly when I hear footsteps and kick it under the bed. Elizaveta runs into the room with a tray of biscuits and I cross my legs, trying to look nonchalant even though I feel abnormally warm. I thank her and shakily grasp my cup of tea, trying to listen as she rambles on about how cute House and Wilson are together in House MD, and I mumble complaints about how she should use the show to learn, but I find myself agreeing.

Suddenly, she sets down a half eaten biscuit and stares at me imploringly, blinking owlishly but with some intensity in her gaze. "Arthur," she says softly, "Don't be offended or anything, but... are you gay?"

I choke on air and Elizaveta takes my teacup from me before I can spill it. I stutter nervously, hedging around the question, before glancing back at her serious eyes. Sighing, I look down and shrug. "I don't know."

She pats my shoulder gently. "Hey, don't be like that!" she says cheerily, and I glance up to see her smiling comfortingly. "Listen, Arthur... Being gay isn't a bad thing, you know," she murmures quietly as if I'm some sort of petrified animal.

"It's not that," I mumble shyly, picking at my sleeves and averting my gaze again. "I'm fully accepting of all sexualities." I swallow nervously and watch at Elizacat bats at a toy mouse. "It's just..." I began, breathing deeply, and Elizaveta leans forwards expectantly. "I... I can't," I finish lamely, and she deflates, looking honestly dejected.

"Why not?"

I bristle defensively and consider telling her to mind her own business, but eventually sigh for the umpteenth time and stare at the floor. "Because I think I'm in love with my best friend."

**x.**

"Arthur? You have a visitor."

I look up as the nurse disappears from the doorway, curious as I set down my book beside me, but then scowl as Alfred enters, looking very awkward and out of place in his jeans and bomber jacket (My heart thumps erratically as I notice he wears that a lot now.) amongst the white-washed hospital.

He stops a few feet in front of me and offers a sheepish grin. "Hey, Artie," he greets softly in that tone he reserves only for me. I flush and squirm uncomfortably, feeling awkward after the revelation I'd come to a few days ago.

"Hello," I murmur, shifting to the side to silently offer him a seat. After a moment, he comes to sit beside me, the bed dipping slightly. I bit my lip and look away as my face heats up as I realise that we're sitting on the same bed. Suddenly, all of those sleepovers and times we'd shared a bed or a sleeping bag didn't seem so innocent.

"So I've been thinking," he blurts out suddenly, startling me from my corrupted thoughts. I look at him, raising my brows, and he coughs nervously. "Just..." He trails off into a frustrated sigh and glares at the wall. "I'm sorry, okay?" he snaps, then deflates. "Sorry... I just... I was thinking about what you said. You're right... It isn't fair that you told me so much and yet I keep my own feelings bottled up." He sucks in a deep breath and turns back to me, blue eyes earnest and anxious. He grips my shoulders and pulls me forward slightly, and for a moment I wonder if he's going to kiss me. "So I'm gonna be honest, Artie..."

As the silence draws on, I lick my lips and try not to get my hopes up when his gaze flickers down to my mouth. "Yes?" I prompt quietly.

He stares into my eyes for a long moment and loosens his hold on my shoulders. "You mean a lot to me," he mumbles, and I frown, slumping slightly. "I'd... I do want to protect you. But sometimes, I... Sometimes, that craving to protect you is so strong that it feels more like possessiveness. Like... like I want you to be just _mine_." His cheeks are red and I feel his hands trembling, and I wonder if his heartbeat is as strong as mine. "And... I'm sort of scared of the reason why..."

I cover his hands with mine and offer him a wary smile. "It's okay," I mumble, wishing I was annoyed that he wanted me to be only his, but somehow only able to feel touched. I hated these feelings... I felt so vulnerable. "I... Honestly, I've been questioning my own feelings too," I confess, and repress a smile as he brightens at my words.

"Oh," he says, a bit too loudly, and laughs in embarrassment. "Oh," he repeats, quieter, and brushes my hair out of my way. "Stop covering your eyes," he suddenly advises, staring right at me. My breath catches in my throat. "They're too pretty to be hidden."

Damn him.

**x.**

I feel my heart beating erratically as I speedily walk towards school, a bit out of breath from my exerting walk. I shift my bag, wincing as the strap digs into my shoulder, and amble up to the entrance, staggering through and preparing to saunter towards the bleachers, where Alfred always spends his time before and in between classes. The greeting, accompanied by an affectionate insult as a term of an endearment, rises in my throat as I picture his defiant azure eyes glinting as he prepares to retort... but dissolves into a quiet intake of breath when I see his arms around _someone_. He's smiling into her hair and rubbing her back and all I wonder is why he isn't holding _me_ like that instead. I feel furious and somehow betrayed, the rage building up inside of me like an active volcano. Before I explode, I turn swiftly and march to the school, fists clenched tightly at my sides.

I slink through the hallways, head ducked down and eyes transfixed upon the floor as my scratched old shoes squeak against the floor, and slide into my seat as I wait for class to start. I finger the pills in my pocket, deliberating for a brief moment, before the image of Alfred holding another person flashes through my mind.

I swallow three.

**x.**

Break is awkward. At least for me it is. I trail aimlessly into the dining hall, reluctantly grabbing an apple, and slide into my seat beside Elizaveta. I glance around the table from beneath my fringe so that nobody will notice, but realise it's pointless.

"Elizaveta? Where's Alfred?" I ask quietly, trying to sound apathetic, but judging by her pained smile I must have failed at it.

"He wandered off with some girl after Chemistry," she replies hesitantly with a hint of regret. She examines my face for any tell tale signs of disappointment. Or at least, that's what I assume she's anticipating. However, I reveal nothing. I've grown accustomed to hiding my emotions and saving face. Maintaining such a pretense and wearing an intricate mask wasn't all that difficult when you were in the middle of a life long masquerade. Alfred is a part of it too, and he won't remove his mask. Why should I?

"I'm going to the library," I murmur, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulders, grimacing as the heavy strap digs into my flesh. I've never been all that strong physically. Perhaps that's because I'd been malnourished and spent my time folding paper for most of my life as opposed to participating in sporting activities with a father who wasn't insane.

Kiku glances up at my sudden dismissal, eyeing me with some strange insensity, the emotions of which I cannot decipher. Part of me doesn't want to. Those monochromatic eyes are disconcerting on some occasions and, whilst he's a lovely person, his mask is the most obvious and yet the most devious. After only a moment, he smiles, although the few seconds of reluctance are enough for me to determine that something is lingering beneath the surface of impassive brown eyes. "Take care, Arthur," he says softly.

I smile back slightly, offering analogous words in reponse, and turn away. I'm glad he's dropped the suffixes; the formality of them bothered me as I didn't deserve to be referred to by such terms of endearment or respect.

The hallways are deserted, save for a couple of students who are leaving their classes late or rifling through their bags to find something. I evaded a couple of younger students who zipped past me with haste for a reason understandable only to them. I wasn't one for speed; I couldn't comprehend why people wanted to go so fast and miss things. I shrug it off. Someone such as myself cannot really criticise another for their involvement with time. Or lack of, as it were.

The librarian offered me an absent smile as I enter, and I return it shyly. I often stay in the library and those who work in here have grown accustomed to my frequent presence. I walk through each aisle of books and skim over the titles, occasionally picking a book up to examine.

An elder student, a girl who's always here, smiles indulgently at me. "Nothing new since yesterday," she informs me, amusement in her soft tone, the hushed whisper making her sound like someone fitting for one of the old romance novels dotting these shelves.

I chuckle quietly in response, sliding a book back onto the shelf. "I thought as much," I reply, "but one can dream."

The short blonde girl's smile softens and she nods in agreement, and then we pass one another. We always exchange fleeting smiles and phatic talk, only occasionally delving into deeper matters that usually involve literature as a deceptive cover for our real thoughts and feelings. I don't know much about her, but she has a protective older brother, although she insists that the rumours of him shooting people were false.

I suppose we could be called acquaintances, but I wasn't one to contemplate over relationships for long. The lines between acquaintances, friends and more than friends became blurry after so long, and so I analysed only the relationships depicted in novels. And so, grasping the spine of _The Great Gatsby_, I bristled at Daisy's superficial obsession with beauty and money, scowled at Tom's hypocrisy, and sighed wistfully as Nick grew protective over Gatsby. Whilst they are both men, I found their relationship the most plausible. I can't understand how Gatsby fell for Daisy with their personalities seemingly so diverse that even the term "opposites attract" couldn't bring them together.

"Hey."

Instead of flinching, I freeze, my nails digging into the pages and probably leaving indents of crescents on the paper. I pretend to continue reading, but he must have seen me tense. I bit my inner lip as I feel hands on my shoulders, flushing as my heart began to beat faster as he leans down, our faces brushing together and his breath fluttering over my heated cheek.

"Elizaveta said you came here," he offered, although I don't really care. So I shrug. "What're you reading?" he asks, but he isn't interested in literature and we both know that. But his breath feels so nice against my burning face and his hands are like anchors that keep me down to earth.

"_The Great Gatsby_," I whisper, and he hums like he cares. He rests his chin on my shoulder and pretends to read, but I risk a glance at him and his azure eyes aren't flickering across the pages. My own eyes widen as his slide towards mine, and although it's too late to pretend I hadn't been staring, I turn away anyway, feeling humiliated. He chuckles softly against my neck and I try not to shudder as warmth implodes in my chest and stomach.

"Is it good?" he asks, and I feel my eyes fall shut, my eyelashes flittering against my flushed cheeks.

Swallowing, hoping it isn't perceptible, I nod. "I-I like it. Very much."

Before he pulls away with his characteristic grin and outstretched hand, I could swear I felt his lips brush against my neck.

**x.**

I sulkily toss my PS3 controller at Alfred as I'm killed by Nazi zombies for the umpteenth time. He grins and I kick him, and he grabs my foot and pulls me off of the bed and next to him. I wince and glare at him irritably.

"_Ow_," I hiss, shoving him. "You pulled me on my arse, you prat!"

He laughs, and it's less nasally now than it used to be. It's deeper, more like a breathy chuckle, baritone and somewhat musical. I feel the glare on my face disappear as I listen to him and stare with repressed longing at his smile, lips wet from the coca cola he'd been drinking minutes ago. After a moment, the laughter fizzles out, and we're left gazing into one another's eyes. His flicker downwards and I dare not hope that he's thinking the same thing as me. But then his own controller slips from his fingers and his eyelids lower over dazzling blue eyes, and the space between us slowly decreases. I feel his breath over my lips and I can smell the fragrance of soft drinks, mint toothpaste, some kind of horrible aftershave and freshly cut grass that probably shouldn't be as appealing as I find it.

Our lips brush together, our breaths that are growing heavier ghosting over our parted mouths, and in an instant I feel an electrifying buzz zip through my entire body. I shiver with a combination of anticipation, hope and reproachful anxiety. I raise a trembling hand and place it on his chest, feeling his accelerating heartbeat, and I wonder if I intended to push him away or tug him closer. I had no time to make my choice, however, as his hand, calloused from rugby and stained with ink from our tuition sessions, slid over mine. Our fingers thread together and then our lips finally come together, awkwardly with our teeth briefly colliding, but fitting like puzzle pieces sliding into place.

It was chaste, sweet and nothing like the kisses I'd seen exchanged on television, in Kiku's mangas, or even in school. It wasn't sloppy or passionate and perhaps most wouldn't perceive it as romantic, but the spontaneity and lingering feelings made it feel romantic to me. I licked my lips and he imitated the gesture, watching me reproachfully as if expecting me to react negatively. Shyly, I squeezed his hand, and his face broke out into a relieved smile. It seemed an insignificant gesture, an offhanded action one wouldn't think of, but to us it was essentially confirmation.

"What about that girl?" I blurt out, wanting to hit myself for ruining the perfect moment.

His affectionate gaze evaporates, replaced by one of confusion. "Girl...?"

"By the bleachers," I mumble, hoping I don't sound petulant. My heart hammers inside of my chest as I anxiously await his answer. Numerous _what if_s swim around inside of my head that make me dizzy, but I restrain myself from closing my eyes or turning away and insistently meet his eyes.

He blinks rapidly before some sort of realisation strikes him, and he has the nerve to look _amused_. "That was probably Katyusha." I stare blankly at him as I try to put the name with a face, and he adds for me: "She's Ivan Braginski's sister... One of them, anyway. The less intimidating and murderous one. With big..." He gestures to his chest with his free hand (and I'm left noticing we haven't untangled our intertwined hands), insinuating her excessive cleavage, I presume. "Yeah," he says awkwardly. "Anyway, she wanted to talk to me. Not 'cause she likes me or anything," he assures me, and I flush. Did he know me so well that he could guess why I was bothered by it? "As a matter of fact, she has a crush on my brother."

"Oh." Well, I feel stupid. Ridiculous. "I almost wish she did like you so that my anger would have been justified," I mutter, although I don't mean that in the least. But it seems so silly; I was furious and distraught over the fact that Alfred had hugged a girl. It was short-lived too, as I found out about the reality of the situation just now, only a few days later. "I feel like the protagonist of one of Kiku's shoujo mangas..."

He laughs again, and I lower my head to hide the smile that I can't prevent whenever I hear it. But he soon tilts my head up and presses his nose against mine, grinning, and I feel laughter bubble in my throat. It falls from my parted lips, a bit too high, but I'm not accustomed to laughing. Despite how grating I think my own laughter sounds, Alfred's smile is content and I feel it against my own lips.

"If you were, I'd be the cool guy everyone has the hots for." I roll my eyes. He's ruined the moment again. "But it'd be cooler if we were in _The Great Gatsby_ and made a different ending."

I pause, surprised. "You... You read it?"

He looks embarrassed. "Well, yeah," he mumures reluctantly. "I've seen you reading it before. Like, twice before that time in the library a couple of days ago. So I bought it a while ago and finished it recently. But only for the first time. It took me ages," he confesses, babbling a bit due to his nervousness. "It's got really complicated words and stuff." He grimaces and I feel my lips twitch. He's far better at practical tasks and logical problem solving as opposed to literary analysis and vocabulary comprehension. He's exceedingly intelligent, but his area of expertise lies well outside the field of English. But that makes it all the more touching that he took the time to read it.

"Idiot," I whisper softly, scared that if I spoke normally my voice would shake.

He understands and, instead of responding verbally, pulls me into an embrace.

**x.**

Despite having not announced anything, it is now common knowledge that Alfred and I are together.

Elizaveta practically drools over us and almost faints every time she sees us together, spurting blood out of her nose whenever she sees our hands locked together. Kiku isn't much better, having flashed a thumbs up at Alfred and I when we entered the school on Monday, and then whisper-asked the American if he could take pictures for distribution. Despite his appreciation of our now apparently public relationship, he did seem honestly happy for us, his dark brown eyes lighting up whenever we smiled at one another, his hidden smile at random intervals between our discussions. When Francis approached us outside of school once, Alfred seemed defensive, but the French boy only shook his hand and messed up my hair (more than it already was) and offered an earnest congratulations, then accompanying it with a perverse comment.

But Alfred's parents didn't know, even if everyone else seemed to. I tried to casually tell him that I didn't mind if he wanted to wait a little while longer before letting them know, but he assured me that he wished for them to be aware. Nevertheless, as true as that may be, he hesitates and makes excuses for why he hasn't yet told him. If he just admitted that he was scared, then...

I sigh, burying my face into _The Catcher in the Rye_. I came to read, not to think about other matters that should disappear when I'm involved in a book. Notwithstanding, I can't ever get Alfred off my mind.

I pick up my pencil and scribble annotations in my book, but I don't register any of it.

I know it isn't as simple as just telling someone that you're afraid. I can't admit a lot of things either, so I can hardly criticise him for it. He still doesn't know that I take more pills than is necessary or that I keep having nightmares or that because of aformentioned nightmares... or that I'm constantly terrified of losing him.

And he never needs to know any of that or the other numerous secrets that I have. He already knows of my past and I felt self-absorbed as it was when I divulged that to him. I loathe talking about myself; it makes me feel terribly self-centred. I know that so many have had worse lives than I have had and most people aren't emotionally impaired or require medication because of it. I feel so... useless. I feel useless because Alfred still hasn't removed his mask. It's been fractured, but it's still there. I wonder if he knows how hopeless I feel when he hides how he feels.

I wonder if he knows it makes me feel like I'm drowning. Like I'd rather die than see him sad.

Probably not. And that was another thing he need not ever know.

I hear the librarian giving a warning to someone and I know that it's him. Blushing scarlet, I slam my book shut after realising I'd just written _Alfred Alfred Alfred_ repeatedly. And then hands ghost over mine and lips brush my cheek. I turn to receive a kiss.

The guilty smile answers my silent question, and I try not to seem disappointed.

But I can't help but feel the suffocating sadness when he hides it.

I dry swallow a couple of pills when he looks away.

**x.**

The ceiling of Alfred's room is painted Prussian blue and is dotted with white stars. There are stickers of spaceships and astronauts, some peeled off haphazardly but with the undercoat remaining, and others in pristine conditions stuck to the roof. I wonder how he got them up there in the first place since he once informed me he stuck them up when he was about six.

Having spent the day failing to make cake, Alfred's mum finally took pity on me and helped me with it. She offered to do it, but I insisted that it had to be my own efforts, at which she beamed proudly as if I was her son graduating university. I flushed in embarrassment and she just laughed quietly, giving me instructions.

After two more failed attempts, I finally made a decent cake. It was a regular sponge cake (Simple is the best approach when you're unsure. Or plain terrible.) coated in a thin layer of red, white and blue icing, depicting an astronaut (who looked more like a beach ball) perching proudly on the moon, lifting an American flag and a rugby ball. I stuck eighteen candles in it, all matching the colours on the cake, and stood over it proudly, only to deflate and blush when Alfred's mother pointed out how I was wearing her pink apron covered in sheep and now icing sugar. With a sly smirk, she said how cute it is and that she should take a picture for Alfred, to which I remained silent and let my face burn.

She'd finally taken pity on me and dismissed me to take care of the decorations, to which I readily complied. Removing the paper from my bag, I'd swiftly began folding them into cranes - red, white and blue ones, predominantly white to represent the stars. I drizzled sparkles over them to make them glitter and shine, and nervously slipped a note into one.

The cranes hung from the ceiling, moving softly in the breeze filtering in from the windows, their delicate wings fluttering. The ones covered in glitter dazzle brilliantly and the glow in the dark stickers I'd purchased makes them shine even more.

Alfred reminds me of light.

Sighing softly, I glance at my watch. It's only two in the afternoon. Alfred gets home at four thirty after rugby practice. Dismissing my melancholy, I fall back against his bed, clutching his pillow tightly, and bury my face into it.

It smells like him.

**x.**

I wake up with a gasp, but can't jump up. I worriedly glance to my side, prepared to see a macabre corpse from my dream, but relax upon seeing Alfred's alive blue eyes boring into mine. I breathe out shakily and collapse back against the bed, not objecting when I'm tugged closer to him. I snake my own arms around him, hoping it doesn't seem like I'm needy.

"Bad dream?" he whispers against my neck.

"It's fine," I reply, eyes fluttering as he trails butterfly kisses along my exposed flesh.

He gives me something in between a grunt and a hum in response, whispering grateful _thank you, babe_s in between the fleeting kisses. It's then that I register the faint music in the background, and I realise his radio is on, some classical tune I can't place quietly filling the gentle atmosphere. Slinging my arms over his shoulders and slipping my hands through his hair, I tug him up, our lips folding together, and there's no longer hesitation in our kiss. We run out of breath but don't want to stop, so we pull away for a split second, gasp, and continue with the dance of our lips.

When I wake up from my delirium, I find myself underneath him, but it's not perverse or wrong; it feels romantic and loving as opposed to sultry and lustful. Whilst our position is implicative, to us it doesn't feel distasteful. With the intense but beautiful sounds of a piano drifting from the radio and the glittering paper cranes hanging over Alfred's head and the marine eyes gazing down into my own, I feel...

"I need you," I whisper, lifting my hands to cup his face and bring him closer. "I want you." And I meant it. Not just in a physical way, not _off with the pants get in there son_ - he wanted Alfred. He craved the other boy's - the other _man_'s comforting, reassuring, warm presence; the sunshine smiles and melodic, soothing laugh; the blue eyes that held more than the sky within them; his flaws that simultaneously drove me crazy and made my heart burst and butterflies flutter inside of me... "Happy birthday, Alfred."

His mask cracks. Not only do his lips stretch into a smile, but his eyes are sparkling with elation as well.****

x.

The constant drizzle, whilst not a furious cascade of pouring rain, eventually leaves me soaked. My hair is in my face, wet and hiding my eyes, and I feel my jeans plastered to my legs, miniature puddles in my shoes, and my pathetic woolen jumper not doing anything to save me from the rain.

But as Alfred sent the rugby ball to his team mate and he scored, as the American's face lit up and he grinned brightly in spite of the saturated, darkening sky and the abysmal London rain, I find I don't mind.

I tiredly trail down towards the field and wait outside of the changing rooms, tuning out the playful banter and talk of girls and plans for the week end. Although it's only the late afternoon, the moon is already out. I gaze at the purple sky, somewhat disappointed; I enjoyed watching blue skies.

There's a sudden light pressure on my shoulders and I turn away from the observant moon to find a smiling Alfred. "You're all wet," he murmurs. I love his voice. Not that I'll tell him that. I grip his jacket and pull it around me more, revelling in its warmth.

"I'm all right," I assure him, "I'm used to rain."

He takes my hand and we begin our slow stroll into town, exchanging half-hearted arguments that aren't reallly arguments, insults that are really terms of endearment, and apologetic kisses for the words we didn't mean. We stop outside of shop windows and agree and disagree on games and clothes and books, and we both pay a lone elderly woman for a rose each. Feeling giddy and silly, we exchange the roses, stifling giggles at our behaviour, and the woman laughs with us before ordering us to get out of the rain. We return her order with a retort insisting we escort her home, and we do so.

Before we head home ourselves, we stop in a little café, grabbing tea, coffee and a croissant to split since he didn't want a scone and I was repulsed by the doughnuts. The moon is now prominent in the darkening sky and the rain's only grown heavier.

"Stay at my place tonight," he says.

We chase each other in the rain as we take the trek back to his house. We ring the doorbell, panting in exertion from our run and our laughter, and we're grinning, unrestrained, at one another. The door creaks open and we turn our jubilant grins to give Alfred's father sheepish smiles.

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly and holds the door open. "Just get in here," he says, ushering us in. "Somehow I guessed you'd abduct Arthur tonight. There's hot water so grab a shower and don't stay up too late." He casts us a baleful glance and sighs a long suffering sigh. "Forget it, you never listen to me." Blinking, he notices the roses we're both holding, but doesn't comment. I feel my cheeks heat up nonetheless, whilst Alfred has a strange pragmatic expression on his face, looking baffled but reassured. Tugging on the sleeve of his coat that's still draped around my shoulders, we ascend the stairs.

I don't want to remove the coat yet - it's so warm. So I slide off my drenched jeans first, grimacing. "Urgh... I won't be able to wear these later; they're soaked through. I think it got through to my boxers," I mumble reproachfully, wincing as I peel the (thankfully black) boxers from my legs.

"I'll lend you a pair," Alfred says, sounding strained. I turn to him, and he flushes. "Uh... They might be a little big, but it's better than going out nude, right?" He grins sheepishly and I scoff.

"Thank you," I reply politely, raising my eyebrows, "but I'd rather go naked than wear boxers with the American flag on them. Or the Superman logo."

He sniggered. "And yet you'll wear unicorns," he mumbled.

I blushed brightly. "You were never supposed to see!" I exclaimed, glowering at him. He cackled but softened as I began to sulk.

"It's fine. I thought they were cute." He grins as if there's nothing wrong with thinking that me in unicorn boxers is _cute_. Twat. And then his arm his around my waist and our lips meet briefly, and he stares into my eyes. "Let's shower together."

In a brief moment of lunacy, I agree to it. Oxytocin is produced by kissing, and so I deduce that he utilised that underhanded tactic to get me to agree. But then he grins and I can't take it back, so with much reluctance I slip off the bomber jacket and drape it over the radiator, and then pull off my jumper and shirt. I glance at him and sigh in relief, glad he isn't watching me. I smile, touched that he's respectful, and then remove the boxers that are clinging to my skin. Resisting the urge to cover myself, I fold my arms defensively and tell myself it's because of the cold.

"Done," I mumble, and he finally looks at me. His eyes don't immediately fall on my scars, but on my eyes as they always do, and he smiles the smile he preserves just for me. And as we stand under the hot water, holding each other and whispering sweet nothings that mean everything, I don't feel empty any more.****

x.

I can feel Alfred's hand trembling in mine, and I squeeze it in reassurrance. He offers me an anxious but grateful smile, returning it. He sucks in a deep breath and we walk forwards together.

"Dad," he says seriously, voice baritone and monotonous, possessing severity which left me wondering when he had developed such a strong voice. I flush at the fluttering sensation inside of me when I hear it because every time I see him, I realise again how he's grown up and how he's mine. "I've... We've got to talk to you about something."

The man who had taken care of me at the hospital all those years ago lays his cobalt blue eyes on us, blinks, and smiles. "Shoot."

Alfred swallows and inhales deeply again. He's holding my hand so tightly that I almost fear he'll break it. I think he's going to blurt it out, stutter, but he surprises me. As usual. "Dad, we love each other. I want to be with Arthur," he says, speech not faltering for a second. I stare at him. "I've loved him for a long time now. I'm not sure when the line between platonic love and romantic love blurred and transformed, but it did. I'm in love with him."

His father scrutinises him for a prolonged moment, and it's tense and terrifying, and then he turns to me. "Arthur?" he asks.

I reluctantly look away from Alfred to meet his dad's intense gaze. "Mr. Jones, I love your son."

He looks surprised, but not too much, which leaves me baffled. After a few seconds, he grins and envelopes us into a hug, leaving Alfred speechless and me flustered.

Darn over enthusiastic Americans.

I feel Alfred squeeze my hand again. I return the gesture.****

x.

Having stayed up two nights in a row prior, tonight I fall asleep. Immediately I lapse into the nightmares composed of ghosts of people I know disappearing, or mottled flesh and corpses; people falling apart when I reached out to grasp their hands; my wings blackening, cinders burning them and crippling them as I fall from the sky. I see someone soaring above me and I know it's Alfred, but he can't hear me crying out for him. My throat burns and my scars burn and open as if they're fresh wounds, and I'm sobbing dryly. Dead blue eyes flash before me and I lurch awake, gasping and whispering unintelligble words along with pleas that I can't understand why I'm saying.

There's a muffled _bang_, and I stop writhing and whining. I stare blankly at the wall across from me that I can scarcely see in the dark and, without looking, I flick on the lamp beside me. The weak energy saving bulb flickers before a constant buzz takes over, the the room is bathed in a soft orange light. My tired eyes flicker towards the floor, and my arm sweeps down to retrieve _Chasing Brooklyn_, a book a rather flustered Alfred demanded I read.

So instead of falling into nightmares once more, I pick it up to read again, always thinking of Alfred.

**x.**

"You didn't sleep again?"

I raise my head off the table and watch as Alfred leans against the book case, hands tucked into his pockets and jacket over his shoulders in a too casual pose. I hum.

"I'll take that as a yes then," he replies, looking concerned, but then purses his lips. He flushes slightly before staring right at me. "I, uh... I saw the note. The one you left in one of the paper cranes," he mumbles, cheeks growing redder. I hid a smile behind my hand. "And I... Well, I... I just..." he stuttered, then groaned, running his hands through his hair before glaring at me pointedly. Storming over to me, he pulled back my chair, hauled me up, and brought our lips together.

"Mmph!" I'm lifted onto the table as his tongue slips through my willingly parted lips, meeting my own, and they move together in a heated tango. He pulls away to allow us to breathe and then licks and nips at my lips before trailing kisses and bites over my jaw and down my neck. "Stupid," I whisper breathlessly, gripping his shoulders. "We're in a bloody _library_, in case you'd f-forgotten..."

"I haven't forgotten," he whispers, reaching my lips against as his hands stroked from my chest down to my thighs. "You and your note just reminded me..."

"Reminded you of what?" I whisper, and we place our foreheads together, looking at each other and drinking everything in.

"My love for you," he breathes out.

I stare at him.

"...Arthur? Artie? Are you okay?"

The force of my hug sends us to the floor, but we're laughing.

**x.**

He emerges from the changing rooms, looking exhausted but exalted, and I can't help but grin proudly. He pauses as a paper crane I throw glides to a stop in front of him. He leans down to pick it up, and then turned to wave at me, running up onto the stands. He grabs my shoulders excitedly, grinning.

"Did you see it?"

I smirk, leaning up to kiss him chastely. "I never miss your games," I reply. "Besides, didn't I once tell you I'd still be here when you're a star?"

**x.**

Photo albums litter the floor like birds in the sky. I smile as I glance over the captured memories, bittersweet nostalgia flooding over me as I trace the outlines of faces that were either still here or who had long since disappeared. I sigh, gently placing the album on the bedside table, my gaze lingering on a photo of Alfred and me clad in pristine suits and smiling into a kiss full of so many feelings.

A hand slips over mine and I turn away from the photos to see the real thing staring at me lovingly. He lifts my hand and kisses it before kissing the ring on my finger, and I smile, shaking my head, and tug him forwards into a deep kiss.

"Happy anniversary, babe," he whispers into the kiss, smiling. "Love you, Artie."

"Happy anniversary, love," I murmur quietly in response, truly happy. I stare into beautiful blue eyes and can't stop myself from smiling. "I love you too, Al."

We're lost in each other's kisses, the whispers of our names and _I love you_s drowning out cars rushing by outside.

Two paper cranes hang side by side on the ceiling by the window, numbers nine hundred and ninety nine and one thousand. I'd named them, but those names are secrets. Although it isn't that difficult to figure out the name of the thousandth one, since that's the one that saved me.

"Alfred..."

**x.**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia **_**belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

This took me one week. =w=;; Of course, not consistently. About an hour or two every day or so. Originally, I was going to give it a sad ending to reflect the quote at the beginning, but... since it's supposed to reflect the relationship of myself and someone else in real life, well...

Anyway, I must say that I abhor present tense and I don't think I want to use it ever again. Any past tense incorporated in here are flashbacks or Arthur reflecting on something. Arthur thinks a lot. Obviously.

Arthur seems autistic in this, at least with how I've written him. He definitely shows signs of it in this, but I'll allow you to deduce whether or not he is autistic. XD; He does, however, have PTSD and Depression. I didn't mention an amazing recovery in here. I can tell you that he stopped overdosing, but he still needs medication for it, but he doesn't take it too often. At the end, anyway. :)

Oh, and yes, they are married at the end. They had a civil partnership after both of them left university (college for you Americans out there) and Al's family attended along with their friends. Gilbert dragged along some people they didn't know, Elizaveta told him off, Francis groped people and everything was grand. Bit of a generalisation and a lot of drama occurred in between, but yus. Mattie was the best man, jus' sayin'.

Um. For some reason, it wouldn't allow me to upload this in one chapter... I've no idea why. So that's why it's in two. *shrugs*

This is for you, Suzume Chiyu. :) x


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